Lost and Found (13 page)

“No they did not!” I shout in his face.

“Yes, they most certainly did!” He starts walking fast again. “And if they recognized me from the store, I’m done. I’m totally done. If that happens I’ll never forgive you. I’m not kidding. I can’t lose my job.”

My heart kind of seizes up at that. “Don’t be mad. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. You won’t lose your job, will you?”

He shoves the package at me in mid-stride. “Just keep that thing away from me. It’s bad luck.”

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing people to flow around me. “But that’s what I’ve been saying!” I wail. “That’s why we have to get rid of it!”

“There is no
we!
” he shouts back. His brown uniform disappears into the crowd. “It’s just
you
and that ring! Good luck! And don’t call me anymore!”

His voice follows me into my dreams that night and I wake up in a cold sweat. The ring still in the box is staring at me from across the room.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I’M NOT A VERY CHURCHY person, so I suffer under the delusion that there are nunneries all over the city just waiting for people to ring their bell and offer them money for all the good causes they’re spearheading. But a few phone calls and misdirected trips out into the boroughs gets my head straight in a hurry. Charity work is tough business.

I finally find myself at a desk, sitting across from a very round woman in black polyester. I’ve brought the ring in my tissues — it’s much easier to carry around that way than in a cardboard box — and I’ve set it down on her blotter.

“I’d like to donate this to your cause.”

She blinks at me several times. “You’re giving me tissues for my cause. Thank you.”

“No, not tissues.” I’m so tired of dealing with stupid people, I’m very low on patience. Leaning forward, I open up the layers. “It’s a ring.”

The woman leans in and looks at it. Using a pencil, she picks it up and dangles it between us. “It’s a diamond ring.”

“Yes.” I clap, excited that she’s got at least half a brain. “And I’d like to donate it to you and your cause, whatever it is.”

“This is Catholic Charities.”

“Whatever. Give it to the Catholics if that’s what you want to do. It’s out of my hands.” I stand to leave. Maybe Larry will give me a month’s free rent for supporting his religion like this. I’ll have to ask him.

“Wait! Don’t you leave this here with me.” She sounds offended.

“Why not?”

“Because … I have questions you have to answer first.”

“Oh.” I calm down and take my seat again. “That’s not a problem. I can answer questions.”

She folds her hands on the desk in front of her. “Is it your ring?”

I bite my lip. And I thought this was going to be easy. “Yeeesss…?”

“That doesn’t sound like a yes.”

“It is a yes.” I nod emphatically. “It’s my ring. But I want you to have it. It’s your ring now.”

“Can you prove ownership?”

I try to bitch-intimidate her. Frowning, I scoff. “I gave it to you, didn’t I?”

“I need proof of purchase.”

“It’s a diamond ring. You think I buy diamond rings for myself?”

“Your boyfriend, then, or your husband. Do they have proof of purchase? A receipt maybe? A diamond certificate?”

I roll my eyes. “Why does this have to be so difficult? I want to give you a half a million bucks and you’re arguing with me?”

She gives me a polite smile. “We can’t take stolen merchandise as charitable gifts. Robin Hood is a myth.”

I stand and snatch the ring off her desk. “I’m no thief!”

She stands too. “I don’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry if that sounded offensive.”

She looks like she genuinely feels bad, so I try to calm down. “It
was
offensive. But I accept your apology.” Sitting back down, I place the ring on her desk again. It’s propped up on the top of the tissues, making me realize that I really need to find some new ones. These look like they’ve seen a kindergartener’s nose more than once.

She smiles politely. “If you give me your boyfriend’s contact information, I’m sure we can work something out.”

I think about it for a few seconds and decide to take the chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

“Fine. He’s not my boyfriend, but his name is Doctor Oliver. He’s over in Lenox Hill on East Seventy-Sixth Street. You can look up his number online.” I point at her computer.

She gives me a funny look but starts typing away. After a few moments, she hits the speaker button on her phone and dials a number.

I really hate that she’s letting me listen in, but I don’t want to blow this, so I wait for the response. There’s a tiny hope living in my heart that the words
Catholic
and
Charity
used together in the same sentence will make a difference.

“Oliver Cosmetic and Reconstructive Surgery Center, how may I help you?”

I wish I could reach through the phone and slap the face of that woman speaking. I can literally feel her attitude on my skin and it’s making me break out again.

“Hello, this is Melba from Catholic Charities…I have someone here in my office who’d like to donate to our organization in the doctor’s name. Is he there to verify the gift?”

There’s a pause and then, “Could you please hold?”

I’m freaking out, thinking I’m almost to the finish line. My armpits are itching now.

“Yes, sure.”

Two very long minutes later, the phone clicks. “Hello?”

It’s him. I feel like peeing my pants, and I can’t sit still. My leg starts itching like crazy, so I bend down and scratch like a madwoman.

“This is Doctor Oliver,” the speaker says. “I understand one of my patients is donating in my name. May I ask which one?”

He sounds so pleased with himself I want to vomit.
Don’t say it, Catholic Charities Lady! Don’t tell him who I am!

“Actually, I didn’t say she was a patient. I believe she’s your girlfriend. Or maybe an ex?” The woman has the decency to cringe at that last part.

I glare at her. She’s totally going to ruin this, and I was so close!

“Don’t tell me … let me guess. The donation is a ring?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” She sits up really straight with a huge grin on her face.

— Click —

“Hello?” She stares at the phone.

I drop my face into my hands.

“Hello? Are you there?” She sounds confused. “I think we just got disconnected.”

I let my head fall back so I can stare at the ceiling while she re-dials the number.

“Oliver Cosmetic and Reconstructive Surgery Center, how may I help you?”

“Hello, this is Melba again, with Catholic Charities…”

“Please put us on your do not call list. Thank you, and have a nice day!” The receptionist hangs up, the fake-cheer in her voice still echoing around the office.

I tilt my head back to the front so Melba and I can share our frustration with one another.

She’s staring at the phone. “That was one of the strangest calls I’ve ever experienced in twenty years of working here, and let me tell you, I get some strange ones.”

“Can you keep the ring?” I ask, nearly crying.

She shakes her head and looks at me. “I’m sorry, but, no. Without his permission, we could be held liable for taking someone else’s property.”

I stand and grab the ring in my fist, throwing it into my purse. “Thanks anyway.”

She stands. “Honey?”

I stop and turn to face her. “Yeah?”

“Maybe you should think about keeping it.”

I frown because she’s nuts. “Why?”

“Because. I don’t think he’s ready to let you go.” She gives me a really sweet smile, and I realize she’s completely deluded herself into thinking I really am his girlfriend. My acting skills have apparently improved with all the recent practice.

“Oh, trust me, he’s definitely not interested in keeping me around.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure. What other reason could he have for wanting you to keep it?”

I snort. “He wants me to keep it because he’s a sick bastard who’s trying to make sure the bad juju can’t touch him anymore.”

She cringes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Never mind.” I walk to her door and open it, the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders. “Thanks for trying.”

“God bless you!” she says at my back.

I can’t answer and be polite, so I keep my mouth shut and walk to the subway. Time for Plan D.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

EVERYTHING’S FALLING APART AND YET life must go on. I still have to get dressed every day, get to work on time, meet with people who’d rather be someone else — or look like someone else — and then cut into flesh and turn it into a work of art that God never intended. But that’s because I have no choice. I don’t have the luxury of checking out on life. There are too many people counting on me to keep my shit together.

Even when I can’t figure out why the hell I should even get out of bed in the morning, I go. I work, I play, I say all the right things to all the right people. But deep down inside, I know there’s something wrong. Something is very wrong with my life. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I sit at the bar and stare into my glass of bourbon on the rocks. The ice hasn’t had a chance to melt before I’ve already finished my drink. “Another,” I say to the bartender, holding up a finger in his direction and then pointing to my empty glass.

He nods and reaches for the brown liquid.

My cell phone rings. It’s probably Hilary, calling to tell me she’s sorry about our latest argument and that she wants me to come over and make up.

The weight of her expectations presses in on me from all sides. How many more battles can we have before we realize the war is over and we’ve both lost? She’s told me, enough times that I’ve lost count, that there’s one surefire way to fix everything that’s wrong between us. There’s one magic gesture I can make that will soothe all her hurt feelings and make everything right between us forever.

I’ve had my doubts about the ability of that magic bullet to pierce the walls we’ve built over the past three years, but today I finally conceded. Today I decided I might as well try one last thing before I give up on everything forever. I bought her a gift at Cartier, the one she’s been asking me about for almost two years.

When are we going to get married? When are you going to finally commit to this relationship?

Answer: Tonight, after I work up enough liquid courage to say the words that will deliver me. To heaven or hell, I’m not sure which, but deliver me they will. I’ll end up somewhere out of here, this vicious circle that leads nowhere, and that’s fine with me. Even going straight to Hades is better than spinning my wheels going blindly into a future I cannot see.

When I finally wrestle my cell out of my pocket to see who’s calling, I realize I’ve probably had too much to drink. The name is blurry for a couple seconds before I see the letter J.

“Jeremy?” I mumble. I press the green button because even though I’m not in the mood to chat, I can’t refuse a call from my little brother. He always seems like he’s one step away from jumping off a cliff, and I can’t be the one who makes him think that’s a step worth taking. He has even more reason to be looking at the bottom of a bottle than I do.

“What’s up, Jer?” I say, trying to not slur my words.

“Fucked,” he says, obviously not making any effort to sound sober.

I sigh heavily, waving at the bartender to let him know I need to cancel my latest order. “What’s fucked?”

“Fucking women, thass what.”

My eyebrow goes up at that. My brother is a card-carrying feminist, which isn’t hard to understand when you know his history, so to hear him denigrating the female sex is more than a little disturbing. He was married to the most wonderful girl on the planet, albeit for a very short period of time before she was taken from us, so he has every reason to have hope in the female kind.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, pulling a fifty out of my wallet and putting it on the bar. I point at it to make sure the bartender knows it’s all for him and grab my coat off the seat next to me.

“No, you dunno…” Jeremy sounds like he’s about to fall asleep.

“What don’t I know?” I step outside into the humid night, leaving my coat to hang over my arm. My eyes scan the street for an available taxi. I need to find Hilary and get this over with.

“She came to me. She actually searched me out and found me. I tried to stay gone, but goddamn … she’s persistent. Fucking
fuck
! I don’t wanna tell you this shit.”

I’m feeling a little queasy inside, wondering if we’re going to have another conversation about the spirit of his dead wife visiting again. Jeremy gets really creative when he’s wasted, which is pretty much all the time these days. Ever since her car accident three months ago.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Listen, Jer, I know you miss her. We all do. But maybe you should talk to a therapist about this. I could recommend someone I went to med school with.”

“What? No…shit…I’m not talking about Laura, I’m talking about Hilary. Fucking…ah, shit. I can’t say the word. Laura would kill me. She’s gonna hate that I’m swearing so much. I’m fucked.”